The 25,000-strong Oakwell crowd was a single, roaring, red-and-white monster.

And Michael's team... they were angry.

He had seen it in the dressing room. He had seen Arthur, leaning on his cane, deliver a speech of pure, unadulterated fire.

"They think you're a one-man team! They think you're nothing without the magician! Are you? ARE YOU?!"

"NO, GAFFER!"

Portsmouth, as Arthur had predicted, were a fortress.

They played with two, deep-lying, 6'4" defensive midfielders, a "shield" of pure, cynical, veteran muscle.

And it was working.

"This is a tactical masterclass from Portsmouth!" the commentator was yelling in Michael's ear.

"They've done their homework! They've cut the head off the snake! The 'Barnsley Braves' look... ordinary!"

Then, the 29th minute.

A nothing-play. A loose ball in the midfield. A Portsmouth defender, trying to be too clever, was dispossessed by a furious, lunging tackle from Tom Harrison, the "Interceptor."

The ball squirted loose.

The Portsmouth defensive midfielder, a giant of a man we'll call "The Enforcer," went for it.

But Finn Riley, in a blur of rage, got there first, nicking the ball away and getting clattered for his trouble.

The referee blew his whistle. A foul.

Yellow Card #1. The "Enforcer" was furious, his face purple as he screamed at the ref.

"A chance for Barnsley to whip one in," the commentator said, "but they're a long way out..."

Michael looked at the spot. It was... 30 yards. Maybe 35. It was too far.

The Portsmouth keeper didn't even look worried. He just calmly, almost lazily, organized his four-man wall.

Danny Fletcher stood over the ball, looking to chip it into the box.

But then, Jamie Weston walked up. He didn't touch the ball. He just... looked at it. He looked at the goal. He looked at the wall. He looked at his teammates, all of them marked, all of them struggling.

He thought of his missing 'Magician.' He thought of his Gaffer's speech.

He took his run-up.

He did not curl it. He did not chip it.

The ball did not go over the wall. It went past it. It was a red blur.

The players in the wall, who had jumped, were still in the air when the ball was already by them.

The Portsmouth goalkeeper, a veteran with 500 games under his belt, saw it. s.

He was still in mid-air, his arms at full, desperate, hopeless stretch...

...when the ball exploded into the top-left corner of the net.

The net didn't just bulge. It ripped. It tore from the stanchion, a sound of pure, beautiful, victorious violence.

For a single, solitary, stunned half-second, Oakwell was completely, totally silent.

25,000 people, Michael included, were trying to process the laws of physics they had just seen broken.

And then... the roar.

It was a sound of pure, unadulterated, primal madness.

Jamie Weston was already at the corner flag, his shirt off, his face a mask of pure, screaming, joyous rage.

The commentator was just screaming, his voice cracking. "OH! MY! GOODNESS! I... I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN! ABSOLUTELY, TRULY, UNBELIEVABLE! JAMIE WESTON! FROM... FROM ANOTHER PLANET! A ROCKET! A THUNDERBOLT! A GOAL OF THE CENTURY! OAKWELL HAS EXPLODED! AND BARNSLEY... THE 'BRAVES'... ARE 1-0 UP!"

Michael was on his feet, his hands on his head, just laughing. He was laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical, joyous sound.

The dread, the guilt, the panic... it was all gone, washed away in a wave of pure, unadulterated Power Shot glory.

Portsmouth, the calm, organized, "Kings of the South," were rattled. Their entire game plan, their defensive "shield," had just been rendered utterly, comically useless by a single, impossible strike. They were furious.

The game restarted. The "chess match" was over. The board was on fire.

The "Butchers" from Millwall had been replaced by the "Enforcers" from Portsmouth. It was ugly.

In the 35th minute, the Portsmouth left-back, who had been humiliated by the goal, saw Jamie Weston get the ball.

He didn't go for the ball. He just scythed him down from behind. It was a horrible, "bad tackle."

The referee blew his whistle.

Yellow Card #2.

Down on the touchline, the coaches were yelling. Arthur was screaming at the fourth official, "HE'S TRYING TO END HIS CAREER! ARE YOU BLIND?!" The Portsmouth manager was screaming at his player, "CALM DOWN!"

The 40th minute. The game was just a mess of fouls, hard tackles, and pure, unadulterated rage.

And then, "The Enforcer," the 6'4" beast of a midfielder, the one already on a yellow card, saw his moment. Danny Fletcher, the "Brain," received the ball, his back to the goal. He was shielding it. He was too smart. He knew the "Enforcer" was coming.

The "Enforcer" didn't care. He was on a mission. He came in from behind, a full-speed, studs-up, vicious lunge. He wasn't playing the ball. He was trying to break the "Brain" in half.

Danny, with his [PA 91] footballing IQ, saw it coming.

He just... wasn't there. He skipped, at the last millisecond, over the tackle, letting the "Enforcer" slide, pathetically, past him.

The referee's whistle was so loud it hurt.

The "Enforcer" stood up, screaming. But the referee, with a look of pure, theatrical glee, jogged over.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out the yellow card.

And then, he pulled out the Red Card.

He was off! Portsmouth was down 1-0... and down to 10 men!

The halftime whistle blew, a sound of pure, beautiful, glorious victory.

Michael was buzzing. The second half kicked off, and it was no longer a fight. It was a show.

Barnsley, a goal up, a man up, just... played. They passed the 10-man Portsmouth team to death. The "Holy Trinity" (minus Raphael) was just... toying with them.

Finn was pulling off rabonas, just because he could.

Danny was playing no-look passes that had the crowd gasping. Jamie, his blood up, was launching Long Shots from 40 yards, just for the fun of it, forcing the desperate Portsmouth keeper into diving, acrobatic saves.

The Oakwell crowd was in paradise.

They were singing "Olé!" with every single pass.

The commentator was just laughing. "This is cruel! This is a training ground exercise! Portsmouth, the 'Kings of the South,' are being dismantled!"

The inevitable second goal came in the 60th minute.

A corner. The 10-man defense was stretched, panicked, and exhausted.

Finn Riley whipped in a perfect, fast, curling cross.

And who was there? Not a giant. Not a superstar.

It was Danny Fletcher. The "Prince." The "Brain."

The kid who had been told to "enjoy the lesson" by his father's captain.

His movement was a ghost. He ghosted in between two giant, ball-watching defenders. He leaped, his timing exquisite.

He met the ball with his head. A powerful, glancing, beautiful Header!

The ball rocketed into the far corner of the net. The keeper didn't even move.

2-0!

The stadium was a party. Michael was on his feet, applauding. He wasn't even laughing. He was just... applauding the sheer, beautiful, tactical perfection.

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